Sins of a Father
by Helena L
Summary: As her kingdom crumbles around her, the Queen has only one person she can fully trust... or so she thinks. Some of the pivotal events in Dragon Age: Origins, from Ostagar to the Landsmeet, shown from a different perspective.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: _

_Anora is one of my favourite characters in DA:O, despite her brief screen-time. I love her for exactly the same reason most people hate her: she actually acts like a feudal monarch. So I decided to write a fic centered on her and Loghain, retelling some of the game's events from her perspective._

* * *

**Sins of a Father  
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Chapter 1

There should have been some kind of sign. A terrible dream; a premonition; a fearful storm tearing apart the heavens to signal the Maker's displeasure. But for Anora, there was none of these things – not even the vague sense of unease that always seemed to afflict the heroes of novels, warning of trouble to come.

The first she heard of Cailan's death was when his seneschal, Finley, stumbled into her private sitting-room without even bothering to knock. His face was chalk-white, and he seemed almost on the verge of tears. "Your Majesty…" he began, and then broke off helplessly.

She ignored the lapse in protocol and hastened to her feet, sensing that something was badly wrong. "What is it, Finley? News from Ostagar?"

"Yes, your Majesty." He drew a rather shaky breath. "I hardly know how to tell you this, my lady, but… the King is dead. He was slain in battle against the darkspawn."

For a moment, the words barely registered. "What?"

"I am sorry, my lady."

No. No, that wasn't possible. In Cailan's last letter, he'd told her they were winning every battle with ease. Her father's own letters had said much the same, and she trusted his cautious, sober assessments a lot more than Cailan's. "There must be some mistake," she said firmly, as if speaking the words aloud could somehow undo the reality.

"No mistake, your Majesty. The messengers have just arrived directly from Ostagar." Finley shook his head. "I… could hardly believe it myself at first. I still cannot."

"Then… then the army was defeated?" The full horror of the situation suddenly hit her. "My father…!"

"The Teyrn lives, your Majesty. He managed to escape along with many of his soldiers. But the King's forces are lost to the darkspawn, and Ostagar with them."

Anora turned away, guilty relief warring in her mind with shock and disbelief. It was only a few weeks since she'd stood with Cailan in this very room, heard him laugh off her fears with his usual blithe self-assurance, and proclaim that he'd be back home within a month. How could he be dead?

She was still half convinced that this had to be a jest, the kind her brash, thoughtless husband might find amusing. At any moment he would appear in the doorway, chuckling softly at her expression – "Fooled you, didn't I?" – and then he would stride over and sweep her into his arms, nuzzling his lips against –

She whirled round and saw only an ashen-faced Finley, standing motionless by the door. Dimly she realised that he was still waiting for orders. "The palace staff will have to be informed, of course," she said mechanically. "And… proclamations issued. Please, Finley, could you attend to it? I… need some time alone."

The seneschal bowed and left the room without another word. Anora sank back down into her chair, trying to shake off the sense of being trapped in a bizarre dream. She did not truly deny the fact of her husband's death, but understanding it and actually _feeling_ it were very different things.

She tried to picture Cailan lying still and cold in a muddy field, his eyes gazing blankly up at the sky. It was no use; her mind still saw him as he'd been on the day they parted, boisterous and cheerful and utterly, irrepressibly _alive_.

The whole army lost. She swallowed, wondering just how many had died, and how many more would fall as the darkspawn horde moved northwards. Thank the Maker that her father had managed to save most of his own men, even at the cost of her husband's life.

Who would rule Ferelden, now that he was dead? They had no heirs of their own, and Maric had no other children – well, apart from that bastard son who'd been raised as a templar, and he clearly wasn't an option. Bryce Cousland, perhaps?

She dismissed the thought almost as soon as it occurred to her. The Teyrn of Highever was a competent enough ruler for his own lands, but he did not have the makings of a king, and she doubted that he'd accept the position even if it were offered him. No, for the moment at least, the throne was hers. And though she'd been ruling the country in all but name for five years, there was something daunting about that thought.

She remembered how Cailan had come to her after Maric's death, looking scared and lost and unsure of himself for the first time in his life. How he'd confessed that he didn't feel ready, didn't know how to be King, despite a whole lifetime spent in training. And she'd calmed him down and reassured him that he'd soon grow into the role, that she would be there to support and advise him, just as she always had. If she could do that for Cailan, she could do no less for herself.

The sound of quiet sobbing nearby dragged her back into the present. She hastened to the door and opened it, to see one of the chambermaids weeping in the corridor outside. With a sinking heart, Anora realised that everyone must know of Cailan's death by now.

"Edith?" She laid her hands on the maid's shaking shoulders, drawing the girl around to face her. "I take it you've heard the news?"

"Y-yes, your Majesty." Edith sniffled, her eyes swimming with tears. "My lady… will the darkspawn come here? Will we all die?"

"Of course not," Anora said sharply. "My father is still alive, and he's faced down far worse enemies than this. He will _not_ allow the darkspawn to overrun Ferelden. Try to calm yourself, girl."

"Yes, your Majesty." The maid wiped her face with her sleeve, making a heroic effort to stem her tears; then her lips started to wobble again. "Oh, poor King Cailan…"

She choked back another sob and hurried off, leaving Anora conscious of a strange hollowness inside her, an aching void where grief ought to be. How was it that Cailan's servants could weep for him, but she could not? She briefly wondered if the girl had been one of his conquests, then angrily dismissed the thought. What did her husband's infidelities matter now? He was dead.

For the rest of the day she busied herself about the palace, soothing fears and calming wild rumours and trying her best to re-establish some kind of normality. By the time she returned to her chambers, she was so exhausted that she could barely speak. Erlina came and sat beside her and held her hand, and that simple gesture brought tears to her eyes where everything else had not.

She only hoped that time would lift this terrible sense of numbness, and allow her to grieve properly. She had to cry, at least a little, or else people would think she felt nothing for Cailan. As Queen of Ferelden, Anora was well accustomed to feigning emotions she didn't feel – but the thought of having to dutifully squeeze out tears, while concealing everything she _did_ feel, was almost repulsive. For all her late husband's faults, he deserved better than that.

...

The following days were no easier, however; it took almost a week for the reality of Cailan's death to fully sink in. Strangely enough, it was the sight of one of his garments that did it – an expensive doublet, ripped at the seam in a moment of over-exertion, and tossed carelessly over a bedroom chair. She remembered him saying it could wait to be mended until he got back from Ostagar – and all at once it hit her that he wasn't back, would never be coming back. Somehow she managed to stagger over to the door and lock it before collapsing face-first onto the bed.

She emerged from her chambers nearly an hour later, eyes still burning but finally dry, to discover that her father had just returned from Ostagar. She hurried to greet him as he marched into the courtyard, grim-faced and windblown and spattered with mud from days of hard riding, and he folded her into his arms without saying a word. Anora could remember a time when she'd thought her father's embrace could protect her from anything; that time was long gone, but there was still comfort in it.

"Anora." His gruff voice rasped against her cheek. "I'm sorry."

She didn't have to ask his meaning: for Cailan, his soldiers, his own failure, everything. "Father… _how_? How did it happen?"

"The Grey Wardens." Crushed against his chest, she could feel his voice vibrate with suppressed fury. "_They_ are what happened."

As she looked up at him in bewilderment, he released her and abruptly pulled away. "I must go indoors. I've barely eaten in days, let alone bathed or slept. Come to me later, and I'll tell you everything."

For the next few hours, Anora was left to puzzle over her father's cryptic words. She knew there had been Grey Wardens at Ostagar with Cailan; his letters had hardly talked of anything else. Did Father simply mean that they'd failed in their mission to protect him, and defeat the darkspawn?

At long last, a servant came to inform her that the Teyrn was ready to see her. She found Loghain slumped down on a couch in his chambers, still unshaven and somewhat dishevelled, though rather less dirty. He managed a wry smile when she offered him a slice of currant-cake, and as he wolfed it down hungrily, she stirred up the fire into a comforting blaze and drew up a chair beside him.

"Now tell me, Father," she said, as he polished off the last few crumbs. "What did you mean about the Grey Wardens?"

A long, slow hiss of breath escaped him. "There was a plan," he said at last. "Cailan's forces held a good defensive position. They were to draw the darkspawn's attention, while some of the Wardens lit a beacon to signal my forces to charge from cover."

"And the Wardens failed to light the signal?"

"Oh, they lit it, but too late. By which time your _fool_ of a – " He broke off, seeing her expression. "Forgive me. By which time, your husband had already led his own men in an utterly suicidal charge against the darkspawn." His eyes narrowed to hard slits. "I believe," he said quietly, "that the Wardens goaded Cailan into making that charge."

Anora opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her father's expression was deadly serious, yet from anyone else, his words would have seemed sheer lunacy. "Why?"

"Because…" He hesitated. "It's my belief," he said slowly, "that it was a deliberate plot, hatched between them and the Orlesians. I see no other explanation. What better way to dispose of Cailan and install their own puppet on the thone?"

For a moment, Anora wondered if she was the one going insane. "What 'puppet', Father?"

"Who knows? They are not here to ask." He turned his head slightly, gazing into the fire, and she saw the dancing flames reflected in his eyes. "Whatever their little scheme was, it backfired. Most of them were killed along with Cailan."

"And the rest?"

He shrugged. "I've ordered my men to bring in any survivors."

A long silence followed – Loghain still staring into the fire, while his daughter tried to picture the scene as he described it. Nothing about it made sense to her; she saw each of them in her mind's eye, Cailan and the Wardens and the darkspawn, yet the pieces just did not fit together. There had to be a more rational explanation – but after days of over-exertion and several sleepless nights, her mind was simply too tired to grasp at it.

"Was there nothing you could do to prevent this?" Her voice had sunk to barely above a whisper.

Loghain shook his head. "What could I have done? By the time I realised what had happened, Cailan and his men were already overwhelmed. I barely managed to pull out my own forces in time."

"You didn't even try to save him?"

He squeezed his eyes shut, as if in pain. "The battle was already lost. Would you have had me sacrifice the entire army in a vain attempt to save Cailan?"

"Of course not. But we've lost more than one man's life, or even an army." Anora's fingers gripped the arm of her chair. "Have you considered who will take the throne now that Cailan's dead?"

"You will, I assume."

She sighed. "You make it sound so easy. I have no legitimate claim, you know that."

"Not by blood, perhaps. But by every other measure, that throne belongs to you, and has for the past five years." He shifted round to face her, a slightly cynical expression on his face. "Don't tell me you've been too consumed with grief over Cailan to think about this, Anora. I know you better than that."

She stiffened slightly at the implication that her grief had not been genuine, but chose to overlook it, knowing he hadn't meant it that way. "As a matter of fact, yes," she said quietly. "I have thought about it, and I have a plan. But I will need your help, Father."

...

Cailan's funeral procession took place on a dull, frosty morning early in Drakonis. There was no body to burn, of course, but still they sang all the usual hymns and chanted the prayers and lit a pyre in his honour. And when it was over, Anora stood on the palace balcony before the huge crowd of mourners, and announced that she was making her father the regent of Ferelden.

The crowds roared their approval, filled with joy and relief to hear that their country was back in safe hands. Their beloved Queen would remain on the throne, and Loghain Mac Tir, the Hero of River Dane, would lead her armies. The darkspawn would soon be vanquished, and all would be well again.

Anora knew that it would be rather more difficult than this; her father's regency could only be a temporary solution, at best. But at least it would buy her some time, time to plan and strategise and form alliances. The traditionalists would cry foul at the idea of a non-Theirin on the throne – let alone a woman whose father had once been a common farmer – but there would be others who'd support her, happy to see a strong, competent ruler in charge and avoid a damaging power struggle. When the time came for the Landsmeet to choose the next monarch, she would have to make sure they were in the majority.

Yes, it was possible. But she would need to tread very, very carefully. As the people's cheers echoed round the walls of the palace, she cast a surreptitious glance at her father, wondering if he realised how much was at stake. For her country's sake, and her own, she would have to pray that he did.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"Father?"

The door swung inwards slightly at Anora's gentle tap. When she received no answer, she grasped the handle and pushed it open, stepping purposefully across the threshold. Her father sat hunched over his desk, poring over a map in the flickering candlelight, while scratching notes on a piece of vellum. He'd ruin his eyesight if he kept doing that, but that was hardly her foremost concern right now.

"Father." He didn't look up. "We need to talk."

"I'm very busy, Anora."

"This is important." She twisted her hands together, trying to keep the tension out of her voice. "Father, what happened at Highever?"

Loghain's hand jerked sideways, splashing a drop of ink onto the edge of his map. "Damn!" He seized a rag and began to dab carefully at the small black spot, trying to prevent the stain from spreading any further. Anora waited patiently, knowing full well that it was useless to interrupt at this point.

At last he crumpled the rag in his hand and took up his quill once more. After a moment or two of heavy silence, he finally spoke.

"Howe told me he had found evidence that Bryce Cousland might be collaborating with the Orlesians. When he led his troops to Highever, preparing to march south, he confronted Bryce in private – thinking there must be a more innocent explanation." He sounded like an actor reciting a pre-rehearsed speech. "But Cousland attacked him without warning. When Howe's men came to his aid, Cousland ordered his own guards to attack them, and refused to surrender. He was forced to kill the entire garrison in order to escape."

"And Fergus Cousland's wife and eight-year-old son?" she said tartly. "Did they 'refuse to surrender' as well?"

Loghain, still staring fixedly at his map, did not answer. "What about Fergus himself?"

"Killed at Ostagar, I believe."

Anora closed her eyes briefly, picturing the Couslands as she'd seen them at last summer's Landsmeet. Teyrn Bryce Cousland, laughing and joking with the other nobles; Eleanor with her kind, wise eyes. Fergus, the image of his father, with his Antivan wife clinging to one arm and his young son hanging off the other. And Aedan, the younger son: too busy flirting with every unattached woman to pay her much attention, though once or twice she'd caught him giving her an amused, appraising glance. All gone.

It wasn't difficult to guess what had really happened. Howe had waited for Highever's army to leave, and then taken advantage of their absence to kill his liege-lord along with anyone who might serve as a witness. There was a cold, brutal logic to it that she almost had to admire, even as she despised the man. No doubt his agents were hunting poor Fergus Cousland even now, just to make absolutely sure that he wouldn't return from Ostagar.

She swallowed hard, fighting down a sudden wave of nausea. "Father, don't tell me you honestly believe this ridiculous story?"

Her father leaned back in his chair, looking up at her for the first time. He looked tired, she thought, with pallid, waxy skin and dark shadows rimming his eyes. She suspected he hadn't had a full night's sleep since Ostagar.

"There will be a full investigation, of course." There was a harsh edge to his voice. "_After_ the darkspawn have been defeated."

"And in the meantime, Howe takes Cousland's teyrnir?"

Loghain shrugged. "Howe is a valuable ally, and with all the Couslands dead or… missing, the teyrnir is rightly his. I can't deny it to him based purely on speculation."

Yes, a valuable ally. Unlike Bryce Cousland, who would certainly have opposed Loghain's appointment to the regency. Anora gritted her teeth. She knew, quite as well as her father, that many people had wanted Bryce to take the throne on Maric's death. Had he survived, he could have thrown all kinds of obstacles in her path – yet now he was dead, suddenly and brutally, only days before that crushing defeat at Ostagar.

She met her father's expressionless gaze, and stifled a sigh. Of course he would trust Howe; what other choice did he have? One didn't question a convenient miracle.

"And what am I supposed to tell the Landsmeet?" He shrugged again. "Father, if you want me to craft a plausible lie for you, at least give me something to work with! The Bannorn is already in uproar over Ostagar. If you and I don't believe Howe's tale, what makes you think anyone else will?"

He frowned. "That's your affair, Anora. Politics is your domain, not mine – "

"Then you had better _make_ it your own," she said sharply. "Did you think that being the Regent would be like commanding troops on a battlefield? That you could just bark out orders, and everyone would snap to attention?"

"You've said enough, daughter." Loghain's voice was rough. He stood abruptly, sweeping pen, ink and papers to the side of his desk. Anora watched him brush imaginary dust off his map and carefully fold it, smoothing out the creases with the tips of his fingers.

She shook her head. "The Landsmeet will take place in three days, Father, and the Bannorn will expect a convincing explanation. For Highever and – " her voice faltered slightly – "for Cailan's death. I only hope you are able to give them one."

When he failed to answer, she gathered up her skirts and swept out of the room. Just by the door, she paused briefly to look back at her father. He was still standing motionless by his desk, staring at the portrait of Maric, Rowan and Cailan that hung on the opposite wall, as if hoping the force of his gaze could somehow bring them back to life.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The Landsmeet had been even more disastrous than Anora had feared. The banns had reacted with predictable outrage and disbelief to the accusations of treason against Bryce Cousland and his family; still more to Howe's investiture as Teyrn of Highever. But all this paled in comparison to the furore over Ostagar and the loss of Cailan's army.

Honestly, there were times when she could happily have murdered her father. At precisely the time when he should have been doing his best to reassure people – soothing ruffled tempers, explaining his decisions, addressing their concerns as best he could – he'd instead resorted to brusque demands and even threats. Anyone, she thought furiously, could have told him that this was the wrong approach. The notoriously prickly Bannorn did not take kindly to being ordered around, especially by the man who'd just lost them their King and an entire army.

But it was Teagan Guerrin, Arl Eamon's brother, who had thrown everything into chaos. Anora had watched in disbelief as he stood before the Landsmeet in full armour, almost as if he were expecting a fight, and all but accused her father of treason. Not in so many words, of course, but she had little doubt that everyone in the room had understood his meaning.

What was worse, she hadn't even known how to respond. She couldn't defend her father's conduct at Ostagar, for she hadn't been there – and Loghain had certainly not helped matters by losing his temper and storming out, leaving her to address a roomful of angry and resentful nobles.

"_Bann Teagan, my father is doing what is best!"_ Even to her own ears, her words sounded lame and inadequate. She'd felt utterly foolish and, worse, insignificant – knowing she must look like a puppet ruler, under the thumb of her father. And Bann Teagan's response had struck rather too close to home: _"Did he also do what was best for your husband, your Majesty?"_

In truth, she still didn't fully understand what had happened at Ostagar. Loghain might blame the Wardens for Cailan's death, but Anora was skeptical; for the life of her, she couldn't see how getting themselves killed along with their King was supposed to work to their benefit. She fully believed him when he told her the battle could not have been won; the alternative was unthinkable. But if so, why could he not explain in simple terms why he'd been forced to retreat?

It was these thoughts that occupied her mind as she headed for Loghain's chambers, hoping she could convince him to see reason. With luck, and patience, perhaps she could salvage the situation before his intransigence led to all-out civil war. Her hopes began to fade, however, the instant she encountered Rendon Howe coming in the other direction.

Her father was holding private meetings with Howe – meetings which excluded her – far too often for her liking, both at the Palace and at Howe's own estate. She strongly disliked the man, and was deeply suspicious of his influence over her father. It was all she could do to conceal her disgust of him as he greeted her with his usual oily smile.

"My lady," he drawled, with a faintly condescending air that made her itch to smack his face. "I trust you are well?"

She met his eyes coolly, wondering what he'd been discussing with her father. "Quite well, thank you, Arl Howe."

"_Teyrn_ Howe, your Majesty," he said, with just a hint of reproach. "Your father agreed to grant me the title, if you recall."

"Ah, yes. I must have forgotten." She was rewarded by seeing him colour up slightly and clench his teeth. "If you'll excuse me, my lord teyrn, I must speak with my father. I trust your business with him has been settled?"

"Yes, your Majesty. When I left him, he was draining a chalice as if the Golden City itself lay at the bottom." Before she could respond, he gave her a perfunctory bow and stalked off in the direction of the stairwell.

She cast a scornful glance at his retreating back and turned away, only to see yet another man emerge from her father's chambers. This one was an elf, handsome in a slightly effeminate way, with tanned skin and carefully-styled blond hair. He wore a great deal of leather, and very little else. She couldn't imagine who he was, or what kind of business he could possibly have with her father.

As she gazed at him in astonishment, the elf's eyes lit up, and he swept an elaborate bow. "Your Majesty." He spoke with a heavy Antivan accent. "I have heard many tales of your beauty, but now I see that they did not do you justice."

Anora shot him a glance that would have reduced most of her courtiers to quivering blancmange, but on this elf it had no effect at all. He straightened up, grinning at her, and sauntered off in the same direction as Howe. Shaking her head, she went on her way to her father's room.

As she entered the room, Loghain drained the last dregs from a cup of wine and immediately set it down to pour himself another. She'd never known her father turn to drink before now, and she very much hoped he didn't plan to make a habit of it. Having filled the cup to the brim, he settled back into his chair, and only then did he notice his daughter.

"Anora." His voice was hoarse, and moving closer, she could see that the bruises under his eyes were more pronounced than ever. She'd fully intended to take him to task about the Landsmeet, but the sight of his weary face cost her a sudden pang of regret. Perhaps this particular confrontation could wait a little longer.

"Father." She bent over his chair, planting a dutiful kiss on his forehead. He reached up silently to grasp her hand, and for a few moments, it felt just like the old days.

Anora was the one to break the silence. "Father, who was that _extraordinary_ elf? I've never seen him here before."

Loghain closed his eyes briefly. "An Antivan mercenary. Howe hired him to take care of… a problem."

"What sort of – " She broke off, suddenly grasping his meaning. "A _Crow_? Oh, Father."

He grimaced. "Howe brought me news of Grey Wardens who escaped Ostagar. I don't like it any more than you do, but they have to be dealt with."

"Grey Wardens?" she repeated, incredulous. "Don't you think we have slightly more important things to worry about, with darkspawn ravaging the south and the country on the brink of civil war? What harm can a handful of Wardens possibly do to us?"

"More than you think, Anora. They are dangerous, believe me." Loghain took a long draught from his chalice. "As for civil war, it won't come to that. Teagan Guerrin is not the man to lead a rebellion, for all his bravado."

"But if Arl Eamon should recover from his sickness – "

"Unlikely."

There was a grim finality to Loghain's tone that spoke far louder than words. A terrible suspicion began to dawn on Anora, and she drew back, pulling her hand away from his.

"Father…" She hesitated, trying to choose the right words. "Eamon's illness – "

Loghain held up a hand, cutting her off without saying a word, and she could see the love in his eyes as his gaze rested on her. He _was_ trying to play at politics, she realised, only he'd got it wrong, he didn't understand –

She forced herself to break off that thought, unwilling to follow it to the ugly conclusion. "You and Howe must have spent a great deal of money on this assassin. Why didn't you consult me first?"

He grimaced. "I didn't want to trouble you with these things, Anora."

Anora stiffened, profoundly irritated. Did he still see her as an innocent young girl, to be shielded from the realities of war and politics? She was tempted to point out that she'd governed the country herself for five years, and with far more skill than he was currently displaying – but for once she managed to keep a grip on her temper.

"Father, might I remind you that I am still Queen? It's no 'trouble' to be consulted about the governance of my realm." She straightened up, drawing herself to her full height. "Next time Howe brings you important news, I want to be informed at once – _before_ you start making decisions on my behalf. Will you promise me that?"

Hard grey eyes met piercing blue ones, both wary, neither willing to yield. "I promise," he said quietly. But he was a poor liar, and she didn't believe him.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

It was a fine, mild spring day, and Anora, seated at her desk in her study, found herself casting the occasional wistful glance out of the window. She would have liked to walk in the gardens for a while, but there was no time; several important papers demanded her attention, including the latest accounts from the palace treasury.

It made for worrying reading. Trade with Orlais and Antiva had fallen sharply in the last few months, with many foreign merchants staying away from Ferelden for fear of the darkspawn. At the same time, her father was spending an ever-increasing amount of gold trying to suppress the civil war – and a war it certainly was now, despite all his assurances.

The battle at Winter's Breath had been the final straw. She'd issued one last, desperate plea for the Bannorn to step down to avoid further bloodshed – but as she expected, none of them had listened. The arrests, the hangings, the brutal suppression of minor uprisings: all these had only served to fan the flames of anger and resentment into a roaring conflagration. It didn't seem to matter that her father was winning every battle he fought; for every rebellion he managed to put down, another three seemed to spring up in its place.

There had been riots, too, all over the country – even in Gwaren, Loghain's own teyrnir. She'd begged him to let her travel there to try and calm the situation, but he insisted that he couldn't spare the soldiers. Denerim itself had seen riots in the elven alienage, of all places. And Highever seemed to be in a near-permanent state of unrest since the death of the Couslands.

Much as she loathed to admit it, she was starting to regret making her father the Regent. He was a soldier, not a politician or diplomat, and it had always been a mistake to pretend otherwise. But what else could she possibly have done? She knew all too well that her claim to the throne was distinctly shaky – and besides, she was no warrior, let alone a general capable of leading troops in battle. Even now, if it were possible to remove him from the post, she couldn't think of any alternative.

She threw down the Treasury report with a frustrated sigh, and took up the next document: a decoded message from one of her agents near Redcliffe, with a description of the Grey Warden who'd been causing so much havoc. Setting aside the exaggerated rumours of a giant who tore down houses with his bare hands, all the descriptions she'd read so far seemed to match. Yet no one seemed to know exactly who he was, and the only suggestion she'd heard seemed too far-fetched to be credible.

She didn't know what to make of this Warden. Her father had sent soldiers and assassins to apprehend him, but he'd slipped out of their grasp like water through a sieve. He and his party would pop up in one place for a few days and then seemingly vanish into the ether, leaving behind fantastic rumours: battles with armies of undead in Redcliffe, demons and abominations in the Circle tower, and darkspawn raiding parties all over Ferelden. Recently he'd vanished for a few weeks, and she'd assumed he was finally dead – only for him to emerge yet again on the outskirts of the Brecilian Forest.

At one point he'd even shown up in Denerim, walking around in the city in broad daylight while her father was absent on campaign. No one even seemed to know what he was doing there: he'd wiped out several of the street gangs plaguing the city, visited a brothel, killed a handful of Howe's elite guards – to Anora's rather grim satisfaction – and then left as quickly as he arrived. At this rate she was half expecting him to emerge from her dressing-room at any moment and demand an interview. She almost wished he would; at least that way she might finally get some answers.

Sighing, she tidied her papers away and headed off in search of Loghain. He wasn't in his chambers, nor in his own study. She was just about to ask the guards whether he'd left the palace, when she finally stumbled across him in a back room – sitting alone in a high-backed chair, staring gloomily into space. He wore full armour, she noticed; he was rarely out of it these days, fearing assassination attempts.

He didn't acknowledge her for several seconds, and she noticed the sheet of parchment dangling from his fingers. "Bad news?" she asked softly.

It was another few moments before he spoke. "Another revolt."

"Where, this time?"

"Oswin."

"Ah." Anora knew this must have hit her father hard; the small bannorn of Oswin, near Highever in the north, was his own boyhood home.

Loghain tossed the letter aside, swearing under his breath, and hauled himself to his feet. "How many times," he growled, "do I have to teach these fools a lesson? How long before they realise this is a fight they can't win?"

The first few times, she had been sympathetic. But they'd had this discussion many times now, and her reserves of sympathy were draining rapidly. "Perhaps you should try a different approach," she said bluntly. "You wouldn't act like this on a battlefield, surely? Trying the same failed tactic over and over again, in the hope that it will finally –"

She paused, for it was clear that her father was barely listening; he wasn't even looking at her. "Why?" he said hoarsely, almost to himself. "Why are they doing this? What has got into them all?"

"Why?" She looked at him in disbelief. "You honestly don't see why someone would fight a hopeless battle out of anger and defiance? Thirty years ago, you led a ragtag army of peasants and outlaws against an entire Empire. You _were_ one of those men, Father. How can you not understand it?"

The sudden silence was deafening. Loghain's posture had stiffened, his rough breathing stilled. Slowly he turned to face her, and she froze when she saw his expression: the look he gave her could have burned through solid steel.

He took a step towards her, and she very nearly backed away; there was a rage in his eyes that was almost feral. "Are you comparing me to the _Orlesians_?"

She held her ground, forcing herself to remain calm. "Of course not," she said quietly. "All I am saying is that for a peasant who's seen their crops destroyed, and their land taken, and their friends killed or pressed into service… it may be hard to tell the difference. That is all."

"_Never_ say that to me again, Anora." Loghain's voice was steadier now, and the wild look had vanished from his eyes, but he was clearly still struggling for control. "Never. Not even in jest." He seemed about to say something more, but then thought better of it, turning away from her with a heavy sigh.

Anora drew a deep breath, clenching her fists against her sides. She didn't honestly believe her father would have hurt her – he'd never lifted a hand to her, not even when she was a child – but for a brief moment there, she'd felt genuine fear. This was a side of him that she didn't recognise, and the revelation was not a pleasant one.

She knew her father was no saint, and that war was an ugly business. She knew he was ruthless in battle, and even more ruthless against anyone who threatened his beloved Ferelden. But she'd never seen him in this state before, not even in the darkest days after Ostagar. Suddenly she found herself wondering if the rumours of battlefield atrocities – the ones she'd dismissed as mere spite and malice, put about by his enemies – might actually contain a grain of truth.

She took his arm and steered him gently back down into his chair, feeling more secure without him towering over her. After a moment, his tensed muscles relaxed slightly and he shook his head. "The Warden is behind this somehow," he said to no one in particular. "I can feel it."

Anora said nothing. According to her own reports, the Warden and his party had last been seen heading west into the Frostback Mountains. She couldn't imagine what he was doing there, but he clearly couldn't simultaneously be in the Frostbacks and fomenting rebellion in the Bannorn. But it was useless to point this out to Loghain; these days, his obsession with the Grey Wardens was second only to his all-consuming dread of Orlais.

"Just who _are_ these Wardens, Father? I suspect that you know better than I do." He glanced up at her sharply, and that brief look confirmed what she suspected: that he was hiding something from her. "Tell me, is it true that one of them is Maric's bastard?"

Her father nodded. "So it appears. I suspect that the Wardens and their Orlesian allies may be conspiring to place him on the throne."

She let out a choke of incredulous laughter. "_Alistair_? Father, the boy was raised in a Chantry! He has no more idea how to rule Ferelden than a kitchen-maid!"

Loghain's eyes narrowed. "What makes you think he'd be doing the ruling, Anora? In any case, it's not Alistair who worries me. He's no threat to your throne, even with the Orlesians behind him. The other one is far more of a danger."

"Ah yes, the other one." She gave him a searching look. "And who is he, exactly? I've heard some ridiculous tale about him being one of the Couslands, come back from the dead to take revenge."

Loghain shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. He clearly didn't want to tell her, but she'd backed him into a corner. "He's no ghost," he said at last, with obvious reluctance. "But for the rest… yes, it is true. It seems that the youngest Cousland managed to evade Howe's… purge of Highever."

"Aedan Cousland? Then – " She broke off, as a sudden thought occurred to her. "You mean to say that he was at Ostagar?"

Slowly, reluctantly, he nodded. "You _saw_ him there, didn't you? Spoke to him, even."

Another reluctant nod. "Oh, _Father_." Anora hardly knew whether to laugh or cry. "Do you realise what this means? Out there is a Grey Warden who witnessed the massacre at Highever. Who was also at Ostagar, and who will no doubt tell a very different story from yo- from ours."

She knelt down beside his chair and slid her hand into his, hoping affection might succeed where reason had failed. "Father, I beg you. Just this once, give me the whole truth. Is there anything I should know about Ostagar that you haven't already told me?"

Loghain smiled rather sadly, laying his other hand gently over hers, and suddenly she understood. Maker help him, he was still trying to protect her. He genuinely believed that by keeping her in ignorance of his worst mistakes, he could shield her from the consequences. How could such an intelligent man be so utterly blind?

"Anora." He shook his head. "Anora, I – "

His head jerked up at the sudden sound of footsteps, and just like that, the brief rapport between them was shattered. Anora could have cried out in frustration. She stood hastily and backed away from him, just as Teyrn Howe – the most unwelcome sight she could possibly have seen at that moment – entered the room. She couldn't even bring herself to greet him politely, but he walked straight past her with barely a glance, heading straight for Loghain.

"Sire? I have more news." Loghain didn't answer; he had slumped back down into his chair and was resting his chin on his hand, just as Anora had found him.

"Er… yes." Howe wrung his hands nervously. "Well, it seems that the fighting has gone exactly as you – "

"Enough!" Anora strode forward, her patience finally at an end. "I would like to know what you intend to accomplish, Father. Should we not be fighting the darkspawn instead of each other?"

He scowled up at her. "The nobility shall be brought into line, and then the darkspawn defeated. This is no true Blight, Anora – only Cailan's vanity demanded it be so."

She looked away, biting down on her tongue to try and control her temper, and for a brief moment her eyes met Howe's. To her surprise, she realised that for once he wasn't looking smug or amused, but worried. Perhaps even slightly afraid.

"Beg pardon, sire," he said awkwardly, "but Blight or no, we may not have the manpower to face the darkspawn soon."

Anora turned back to her father. "Cailan approached the Orlesians for support, did he no-"

"NEVER!" Loghain slammed down a gauntleted fist with such force that the others both winced reflexively. "Maric and I drove those bastards OUT! We will not roll out the welcome for them now!"

His eyes blazed with anger, but Anora was past caring; this time she would not back down. "We need help, Father! We cannot deal with this crisis alone!"

"Ferelden will stand on its own!" He leaned forward in his chair, breathing heavily. "I will lead it through this, Anora. You _must_ have faith in me!"

It was the same conversation they'd had a dozen times before, the same worn-out arguments. She opened her mouth to attempt, yet again, to make him see reason – and then, in the back of her mind, something clicked. She _had_ seen that look on his face before: just once, before he and Cailan left for Ostagar. When they'd been arguing about the reinforcements from Orlais.

When she spoke again, her voice was low and dreadfully calm. "Did you kill Cailan?"

"Cailan's death was his own doing."

He turned his face from her as he spoke, and that brief, unconscious gesture told her all she needed to know. For a moment she struggled to speak, but no words came. She threw up her hands in a gesture of helpless, impotent fury, and stormed out of the room.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 4

Rainald Merrill squirmed uncomfortably under the Queen's steely gaze. Like all Anora's spies, he was a quiet man of nondescript appearance; the kind who would never draw attention to himself or stand out in a crowd. She had considered him one of her most trusted men – until today.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself, Ser Rainald?"

He dipped his head slightly in a gesture of contrition. "I am sorry, your Majesty."

"You have deliberately kept important news from me at my father's request. For weeks, if not months." She bit out the words with quiet, controlled fury. " 'Sorry' would seem a little inadequate, don't you agree?"

"Again, your Majesty, I can only apologise. I assumed that you and your father would share any intelligence between you – "

"Even though he specifically asked you to withhold information from me?" He said nothing, clearly at a loss for words. Beneath her desk, Anora dug her nails viciously into her palms.

"Let me make one thing very clear to you, Ser Rainald." Her eyes bored into him. "My agents work for _me_ and no one else. Not my father, not Teyrn Howe – nobody. As far as I'm concerned, any kind of disloyalty on their part is _treason_ and will be dealt with as such. Have I made myself understood?"

He nodded. "Very much so, your Majesty."

"Good. Now give me the news you've been keeping from me – _all_ of it – and I may simply have you dismissed rather than executed."

He drew a long breath. "It concerns Eamon Guerrin, my lady, and the arling of Redcliffe. You're aware that he has recovered from his illness?"

"Yes, I am aware." She'd known of Eamon's recovery for more than a week. Though she wasn't especially fond of the arl, she couldn't help but feel some relief – the news had lifted a dark suspicion which had nagged at her mind for months. "Get to the point."

"He appears to have allied himself with the Grey Wardens." Rainald hesitated. "They… are gathering an army, your Majesty."

"An army!" She stared at him. "What sort of army?"

"Any and all allies they can find, it seems. Redcliffe knights, Dalish elves, possibly even some mages. They are mustering at the castle and in the surrounding village."

Anora's breath caught. So _that_ was the reason for the Warden's bizarre detours to the Brecilian Forest and Circle tower, and the sightings of bands of Dalish on the roads of Ferelden. But how in the world had he managed it without alerting her father – or had he known the truth all along, and deliberately kept it from her? _Someone_, she thought, was going to die for this.

"And this is the news my father thought I didn't need to know? He must have lost his mind." She shook her head. "Are there any signs that the army is preparing to march?"

"Not as yet, your Majesty, but it could change at any moment."

"And the Warden himself?"

"He was last seen heading for Orzammar. Which presumably means – "

"That he is attempting to treat with the dwarves." Her father had sent emissaries to Orzammar as well; she only hoped they would not be too late. "Think very carefully before you answer me, Rainald. Is there anything else I ought to know about this army?"

"No, my lady."

"Very well. You are hereby dismissed from my service." She raised her voice. "Guards!"

Two of her personal guards materialised in the doorway. "Take Ser Rainald to the docks in chains, and have him put on the next ship bound for Orlais. If he ever sets foot in Ferelden again, I want him killed on sight." She glanced up at Rainald. "Is that clear?"

Rainald had turned slightly pale. Half-Orlesian himself, he'd been one of her best agents in Celene's court before being unmasked – literally – by a bard's machinations. Sending him back to Orlais was effectively a death sentence, unless he could manage to evade the authorities and slip across the border unnoticed. But he concealed his fear admirably, with only a nod and a quiet "Thank you, your Majesty."

Anora shook her head as the prisoner was led out. How many of her other agents had been compromised, she wondered? She would have to find new spies – not an easy task, at the best of times – and make it absolutely clear where their loyalties lay.

What worried her more was the thought of what other information might have been kept from her. She'd long since given up hope of gaining any useful answers from her father; that last bitter confrontation had shattered what little trust remained between them. They still greeted each other at the breakfast-table, and occasionally met in company to discuss matters of state, but other than that they barely spoke.

He'd been right about one thing, at least: Eamon was scheming to put Maric's bastard on the throne. This in itself would not have troubled her; from what Cailan had told her of his half-brother, young Alistair had neither the will nor the resolve to take the throne by force. Bryce Cousland's son, on the other hand…

Once again she found herself picturing Aedan Cousland, trying to reconcile the trim young courtier from the Landsmeet with the fearsome warrior cutting a bloody swathe across half of Ferelden. He had certainly not made any particular impression on her at the time; from what she could recall, he'd shown little interest in anything but chasing women and making a show in the tourneys. If he truly was gathering an army of his own, he must have changed greatly – though the slaughter of his family, the hardships of life as a fugitive and outlaw, would surely have changed anyone.

At any moment, this man could arrive in Denerim at the head of an army. He would certainly want revenge on Howe, and probably on her father as well. Whether that desire for vengeance would extend to her, as Loghain's daughter, was less clear. In her mind's eye she could see his gaze fixed on her – no longer slyly amused, but cold, hard and ruthless – and despite the heat of the day, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck begin to prickle.

She pushed back her chair and stood abruptly, anger seeping through her veins like hot lead. What had possessed her father to keep this from her? Did he imagine that Eamon and his inconvenient army would simply vanish into the ether? She'd made him her Regent in the belief that he would protect her and her country; from where she stood, he was conspicuously failing to do either.

One more time, she would make the effort. She paused for a second, considering, then took some papers from a pile on her desk and left to find her father in his own room.

He was sprawled in a chair, a goblet of wine clutched in his armoured fist. Drinking, again. She felt a stab of anger completely out of proportion to the offence; for a moment she wanted to grab the cup and fling it in his face.

"Are you drunk?"

"No, but there's plenty of time for that to change." Loghain took a long swig from his chalice, and set it down with a gusty sigh. "What have you come to accuse me of this time, daughter?"

Anora saw no point in telling him she'd caught on to his little game; he'd realise soon enough, and as far as she was concerned, the later the better. "Nothing at all. I've come to ask you what you are going to do about this army the Wardens are raising."

He looked up sharply, but her face gave nothing away. "I assume you are not planning to march on Redcliffe?" He shook his head. "Then may I make a suggestion?"

"Ah, so I'm to have the benefit of your vast military experience once again?" Loghain leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "Do continue."

She regarded him coldly, refusing to rise to the bait. "Not at all. On the contrary, I was going to suggest that you make peace with Eamon."

His brow furrowed, and she pressed her advantage. "He still has influence among the Bannorn; he's probably the only one who could end the war without more bloodshed. Write to him, and tell him that you'd be willing to come to terms if he'll persuade them to stand down." Her father's expression said everything. "I know it would be a bitter taste to swallow, but surely you must see that – "

"And you would see Maric's brat on the throne in your place?"

"Of course not. That is what _negotiations_ are for, Father." She shook her head, trying to cling on to her fraying patience. "If you need a bargaining chip, I can suggest one: drop Howe and give the Cousland boy back his teyrnir. It would please the banns and he'd be a powerful ally – "

"_No._" His tone brooked no discussion. "There can be no 'negotiations' with traitors and Orlesian sympathisers."

"_What_ Orlesian sympathisers?" she snapped. "The only Orlesians who've come near us in six months are the ones invited by Cailan, and you had them turned back at the border! Father, we _cannot afford_ to continue this war any longer. Leaving aside the fact that there'll soon be no one left to fight the darkspawn, have you even seen the palace accounts recently?" She shoved the papers into his hands. "Perhaps I should start making arrangements to pawn off my jewellery? Or some of our gold and silver plate?"

Loghain removed his gauntlets to better handle the papers, and studied the document for some minutes, his face expressionless. "I see," he said at last. "Something must be done, of course."

"Something must be done? _Something must be done_?" Sudden rage tore through her. "For half a year now you've been saying that something would be done! All while the darkspawn are rampaging over the south, and you and the Bannorn tear the kingdom to pieces between you. Isn't it enough that you killed my husband, without destroying my country as well?"

Her father nearly choked on a mouthful of wine, slamming the goblet down with a force that rattled the table. "I did NOT kill your husband, Anora! How many times do I have to tell you this?"

"I don't believe you," she said flatly. "If that's true, why are there soldiers in your army saying that you called the retreat _before_ the darkspawn overwhelmed Cailan's forces? Very well, so the battle didn't go as planned. Aren't you the one who always tells me that battles _never_ go as planned?" She took a step towards him. "I think you could have reached him if you tried – at great cost, perhaps, but you could have done it. I think there was a moment when you knew you could still save Cailan, and _chose_ not to."

"And I am telling you once and for all that there was no such moment! Cailan doomed himself with his own stupidity. If he'd been half the king Maric was – "

"Oh, for Blessed Andraste's sake, shut up about Maric! I remember him as well as you do, and he was as flawed a man as Cailan ever was! The only difference between them is that Maric was forced to grow up." Pain flared inside her. "But since he died, you've transformed him into some kind of saint. You've forgotten his flaws, just as you exaggerated Cailan's. But for all his faults, Father, I loved Cailan. I _loved_ him, and you let him die."

"And you saw all this from your convenient vantage point hundreds of miles away, I assume!" He was half out of his chair now, breathing heavily. "Perhaps you'd like to take over the army yourself, since you seem to possess such remarkable powers of clairvoyance! Maker knows I get little enough thanks for it!"

She glared back at him. "I'd be perfectly happy to leave the army to you, if you'd only – "

But Loghain hadn't finished. "Tell me, how many of my own troops would you have had me sacrifice to save Cailan's worthless hide? Their lives count for nothing, I suppose! Do you know how he was planning to repay you, your 'loving' husband, for all those years you spent propping up his throne? By casting you aside, that's how!"

"_What?_"

"No, you never suspected that, did you? I suppose you knew Eamon and his cronies had been pressing him to ditch you, and find himself a new brood-mare? Well, they were finally going to get their way. I tell you, Anora: Cailan was planning to divorce you."

Anora opened her mouth to reply – and hesitated. She wanted to dismiss the idea out of hand, but she couldn't. As far-fetched as it seemed, it touched at a raw nerve, a deep-rooted fear that had silently gnawed at her throughout her marriage to Cailan.

"Have you any proof of this?" she said at last. He didn't answer. "Or is it just another of those 'feelings' you can't explain? Honestly, Father, you've been lying to me for so long that I'm not inclined to believe a word you say. I'm not even sure you know the truth yourself any longer."

"More telepathy, I take it." Loghain rolled his eyes. "Very well. Since you're apparently capable of reading minds, perhaps you'd care to explain to me why I'd have left my best friend's son to die?"

"Because of Orlais. Because he'd finally made a decision he wouldn't back down from, and you couldn't stand that." Her heart was pounding against her ribs. "You're so obsessed with the idea that the Orlesians are preparing to invade again, you preferred to see him dead rather than give him his way. That's what this is really about, isn't it?"

Loghain didn't reply. He just looked at her, his face suddenly as cold and stiff as the Orlesian masks he so abhorred. "That's what you think, is it? he said at last. "So be it. This discussion is over."

She watched in stony silence as he shoved back his chair and stood up, heading out of the room without so much as a backward glance. The door slammed behind him with a force that shook the whole room.

Anora sank down into the chair her father had just vacated, pressing her fingers against her throbbing temples. Another useless argument, another pointless round of accusations and denials. Yet again she'd allowed her temper to get the better of her, swayed from her main purpose by her simmering anger over Cailan.

Perhaps if she'd only been softer, more patient, more understanding, she might have been able to persuade her father to see reason. But she was no longer his little girl; she was his Queen. She wasn't prepared to plead and cajole and bat her eyelashes as if she were six years old still instead of thirty. If she couldn't speak frankly to him at a time like this, what was the point in trying?

For a few minutes she toyed with the idea of contacting Eamon herself, but there seemed little point; any promises she made would be worthless without her father's support. The sheer helplessness of her position was enough to drive her mad. If she'd only been a warrior like him – but the Maker had made her slim and delicate like her mother, cursing her with a mental strength that her body could never match. She would never be capable of leading an army.

Anora had always been the consummate Queen. Cailan had never understood how she could spend hours drawing up trade agreements or poring over every last clause of a treaty, any more than her father could understand how she thrived on the schemes and intrigues of the royal court. What she couldn't begin to explain was that it was part of her, as natural to her as breathing. It was her duty and her passion, the task she'd been raised to since childhood, and deep down she knew that she had been born to it – for all that her parents were a farmer's son and a cabinet-maker's daughter.

But now her kingdom was crumbling around her, her vassals at each other's throats, foreign diplomats and traders fleeing her court like rats fleeing the carcase of a doomed ship. And the fate of all she held dear – her throne, her people, her entire country – was entirely out of her hands.

She lifted her father's half-filled goblet of sour wine, and with a grimace of disgust, tossed the contents into the fireplace. Then she poured herself another cup and raised it to her lips, an ironic toast to the grim future that lay ahead.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Gwaren had fallen.

Her father had not even been in Denerim at the time. He was somewhere in Iachus Valley, taking out his frustrations on yet another group of hapless banns. Far too busy to make any attempt to save his own teyrnir, her childhood home, from the clutches of the darkspawn.

And not until now, with Eamon and the Wardens here in Denerim, with their soldiers at the gates, and every noble in Ferelden gathered for the Landsmeet that would settle her fate – not until now had she even learned of this. Gaggles of miserable refugees – those who'd been lucky enough to escape – were already arriving in Denerim by ship. With Loghain's men in the Bannorn, and only his seneschal left in charge, there'd been no hope of an organised evacuation. He hadn't even _tried_.

Anora's temper was as legendary amongst her underlings as her father's, if less spectacular. But she'd never felt rage quite like this before. It wasn't the red-hot flame of a roaring fire, but the searing white heat of a forge, so quiet and deadly that it could almost – _almost_ – be mistaken for calmness. Servants took one look at her face as she passed and scuttled madly out of her way; only Erlina, who knew her mistress too well to fear her, was unalarmed.

"Erlina?"

"Yes, my lady?"

"Gather our things, and inform the guards that we will be leaving in ten minutes." Her lips puckered into a tight little smile. "We are going to pay Rendon Howe a little visit."

...

As the royal carriage trundled up to the gates of Howe's estate, Anora laid a hand on Erlina's arm. "You understand what you need to do?"

"Yes, my lady."

"Remember, you're looking for anything that might be incriminating. Letters, contracts, anything with my father's name on it." The maid nodded. "And for pity's sake, don't get yourself caught."

A flicker of scorn passed across Erlina's face. "I am no fool."

"I know." She gave the arm a quick squeeze and sat back, waiting for the wheels to grind to a halt. When the door opened and the coachman offered his arm to assist her out, she gave him her sweetest smile.

"Erlina and I will be here for some time, Willem. I'll have you summoned again when we're ready to leave." He bowed respectfully before leading the horses away.

When Anora entered the estate along with Erlina, she was every inch the gracious Queen, greeting the servants politely and asking if the Teyrn could grant her a short interview. Only those who knew her very well would have spotted the dangerous glint in her eye. As Howe's steward led her through the estate, Erlina followed a few paces behind, slipping quietly and unobtrusively through a side door before they reached Howe's sitting-room.

He did not rise to greet her as she entered, a small but very deliberate insult on his part. She swallowed her rage, determined not to let him shake her composure.

"Teyrn Howe. Have you a moment to speak with me?"

"For you, dear child? Always." He leaned back in his chair with a lazy smile. "I hope all is well at the palace?"

"I'm afraid not," she said coldly. "Perhaps you haven't yet heard the news? Gwaren has fallen to the darkspawn. And my father did nothing to stop it."

"My condolences." Howe's flat, bored tone was completely devoid of sympathy.

"I don't want condolences, Howe. I want answers, and I am not getting them from my father."

"So you came to me." That irritating smile was back on his face. "What sort of answers are you looking for, your Majesty? And are you sure you really want to hear them?"

"I want to hear everything." Her eyes locked onto his, suddenly hard as flint. "I want to know whether my father planned Cailan's death, and how much _you_ knew of it. I want to know what you've done between you to stir up unrest in the Alienage. I want you to tell me everything you and he have been doing without my knowledge."

Howe's face darkened, and he shifted slightly in his chair. She gave him a brittle smile. "Shall we start at the beginning, with your murder of the Couslands? Tell me, did my father know of your plans in advance, or – "

She had not imagined that anyone could move so fast. One moment he was sitting calmly, his eyes fixed on her face; the next he was up and lunging at her with such force that she was flung back against the wall. The blow knocked the breath from her body, and before she could react he had seized her by the throat, grabbing her braided hair with his free hand.

"You _bitch_." Powerful fingers squeezed her throat, making her gasp for breath. "You filthy, treacherous little _whore_. You dare come to my estate and fling false accusations in my face?"

Anora was not armed, but her father had taught her to defend herself with or without a weapon. Instinct overcame terror and she shoved her knee up, hard, between his legs. But Howe had anticipated her, and twisted slightly so that the blow landed harmlessly against his leather cuisses.

His jaw clenched and he yanked her hair back sharply, knocking her against the wall so hard that her head exploded with pain. When the ringing in her ears died down, she found herself crushed against the wall by Howe's heavy bulk, a hunting knife pressed against her throat. Over his shoulder she caught a brief glimpse of Erlina in the doorway, her face white and shocked; then she was gone.

"How dare you touch me, Howe?" She forced herself to speak calmly, though she could barely hear her own voice for the blood pounding in her ears. "Let go of me at once, or I shall – "

"You'll what? Call for help?" He shook his head. "I wouldn't recommend it, your Majesty. The only people within earshot are my guards, and they like you as little as I do. Not to mention that I'll gladly slit your throat if you do anything I'm not happy about."

"And this is how you convince me that you're not a murderer?" she flung back, more angry than afraid. "You must be mad. I have no idea what you think you're doing, but if you imagine my father will allow you to harm me – "

Howe's lips twisted into a smile. "Ah yes. Still Daddy's little girl at heart, aren't we?" She had to suppress a shudder as he leaned forward, hissing into her ear. "How very _sad_ it would be if your body were found in a gutter somewhere, tortured and violated. And what a disaster for Eamon if his Warden friends were held responsible. Why, the entire Landsmeet would be baying for his blood."

"You're bluffing, Howe." Anora gritted her teeth. "You wouldn't dare kill me. My father would rip you limb from limb if anything happened to me in your estate."

"Would he, indeed? Your father is getting very tired of you questioning his judgement, my dear. Nearly as tired as I am, in fact." He paused for a moment, a mocking glint in his eye. "Well, we shall see. For the moment, you can stay here as my guest – until I've decided what to do with you."

She met his eyes without flinching. "You are a traitor, _Arl_ Howe. And as soon as I'm free of this place, you will suffer a traitor's punishment."

"Fine words, your Majesty. What a shame you don't have the means to back them up." He pressed forward slightly, grinding her into the wall, and she felt his hot breath against her cheek. "You're very good at games, my dear, but so am I. I'm going to enjoy playing with you."

She stood rigid, determined not to betray pain or fear by the flicker of a muscle. Howe slowly scraped the edge of the blade down her neck, clearly enjoying her discomfort. Then he gave her hair another sharp yank and began to tug her across the room, inch by painful inch.

He manhandled her out of the room and down a corridor, until they reached a guest bedroom with the door ajar. Howe kicked it open and shoved her into the room with a force that sent her sprawling across the bed. She heard the door slam behind her and the sound of a key turning in the lock, followed by Howe's footsteps retreating down the corridor.

It was several moments before she could move again. Her whole body was trembling uncontrollably, and she had to clutch at the bedclothes to keep her hands steady. When her racing pulse finally slowed and her breathing had steadied, she rolled over and rubbed her sore neck, wondering vaguely if there would be bruises.

She didn't need to be told that she'd miscalculated badly. With the painful clarity of hindsight, she realised that she ought to have dealt with Howe long ago; she had known full well what a poisonous influence he was on her father. But not for a moment had she imagined he would go as far as this. Either he really had lost his mind, or he was very, very confident in his ability to manipulate Loghain.

But Anora was not one to dwell on past mistakes; her immediate concern was how to get out of her prison. Thank heaven she'd had the sense to bring Erlina with her; no doubt the girl would have gone straight to the palace to fetch her father. She didn't doubt that he would come to her aid soon enough, but if she could manage to escape before then, all the better.

The guest room where she'd been imprisoned was comfortable enough, with bookcases and a weaving-loom in addition to the usual amenities, but she saw no means of escape. The door was heavy and extremely solid, and the key had not been left in the lock. The windows were too high to reach, too small to climb through, and led only into an enclosed courtyard. She'd read novels where the intrepid heroine escaped from captivity by picking the lock with a hairpin, but five minutes of trying convinced her that this was, in fact, impossible.

The small candle on the table could conceivably be used to burn a hole in something, but she was far more likely to burn herself to death or choke on the smoke than to achieve anything useful. Still, at a pinch, it could be used for self-defence. She entertained a brief yet satisfying fantasy of shoving the lit wick into Howe's eye-socket.

It struck her forcefully that her situation was starting to resemble a bad play: the kidnapped heroine and the black-hearted villain with designs on her virtue. She could almost hear the terrible dialogue: _"Unhand me, you villain! I will never submit to you!"_ Howe certainly fitted the part, with his ugly face and the permanent sneer in his voice. She could only hope he didn't actually have designs on her virtue; if anything could possibly make her day worse, it was the thought of being molested by that traitorous worm.

Seeing no other option, she took the candle from the table and a book at random from the bookcase, and settled down on a chair near the door. She'd finished five chapters of "Redbeard, Scourge of Waking Sea" by the time she heard soft, hurried footsteps just outside the door, followed by an urgent whisper. "Madame? _Madame_!"

"Erlina?" She shut the book hurriedly and pressed her ear against the door to hear more clearly. "What happened? Have you seen my father?"

"Yes, my lady." The maid spoke rapidly in Orlesian, clearly fearful of being overheard. "I followed Teyrn Howe to the palace, and when I arrived, I overheard them speaking together."

"And?"

"Howe told your father that you had betrayed him, and that he had locked you up here. He said…" She hesitated. "That you were a threat to both of them. That you might be a better ally dead than alive."

A cold, sick feeling settled across Anora's stomach. "Surely you're not saying my father agreed to this!"

"No, my lady, but… Howe persuaded him that it would be 'safer' to keep you here. At least until after the Landsmeet." She paused. "I had to leave then, so I heard no more of what they said."

The whole world seemed to lurch sideways. She braced a hand against the doorframe to steady herself, feeling curiously light-headed all of a sudden.

"Let us be clear on this, Erlina. My father knows that Howe has me imprisoned here, and that he wants me dead?"

"Yes, my lady."

"And yet he is not going to do anything to free me?"

A long, painful silence. "No, your Majesty."

Anora tried to speak, but her throat seemed to have seized up. She closed her eyes and drew several deep gulps of breath, trying to keep a firm grip on herself. She could _not_ allow herself to panic; it would only make things worse.

Erlina's small, worried voice floated through the door. "Your Majesty?"

"Yes, I'm still here. One moment, Erlina." She leaned back against the door, her mind racing. If what she'd just heard was true, she needed to escape this place with all possible speed. There was no way she could afford to wait even hours, let alone days – if her father was crazed enough to leave her as Howe's prisoner, he might change his mind at any minute. Even if he didn't, Howe might still kill her and blame it on the Wardens – to say nothing of all the other unpleasant things he could do to her in the meantime.

On the wall opposite her was a wood-cutting of a young knight slaying a dragon. Anora gazed at it for a moment, a bitter smile on her lips, as an idea began to form in her mind. Yes, that was all the play needed now: the dashing hero in shining armour riding to the rescue…

It was a desperate measure, certainly, but one that could work. Perhaps even to her advantage. She'd been racking her brains for a way to open talks with the Wardens for some time now; perhaps Howe might unwittingly have given her an opportunity.

"Erlina?" She tapped softly against the door. "Listen very carefully. I want you to go to Arl Eamon's estate, where the Wardens are staying. Tell them that my life is in danger, and I would be willing to ally myself with them if they rescue me and bring me to safety. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, my lady. I – " Erlina's tone changed suddenly. "I must go!"

Her footsteps pattered away, followed shortly by the slower, heavier tread of an armed guard. Anora suspected that there would be no further opportunities to confer with her maid.

She only hoped Erlina would manage to convince Eamon and the Wardens to help her. But the Orlesian girl excelled in mock-histrionics; by the time she finished spinning her tale, they'd probably believe Loghain was on the point of cutting her throat himself. No bad thing, she thought, if it meant that rescue got to her more quickly.

She knew she was taking an enormous risk by relying on her enemies for help. They might choose to leave her to her fate, or even hold her prisoner to secure concessions from her father. But she'd known Eamon since she was a child; she couldn't believe he would leave her at Howe's mercy, and he was too honourable for hostage-taking. A weakness, as far as she was concerned, but one she was quite happy to exploit.

It was painful to have to admit what she'd known, deep down, for some time now: her father had gone mad. Maker only knew what was going through his head now: perhaps he really did see her as a threat, or perhaps he even had thoughts of taking the throne himself. It pained her to think of betraying him, but if that was what it took to save him from himself – and protect herself, her throne and her country – she would not flinch from it.

Would he really be capable of killing her? She shivered as she realised how easy it would be for him; all he'd have to do was put his hands around her neck, as Howe had done, and squeeze. His strength was such that it would probably take mere seconds. Unlike Howe, he wouldn't want her to suffer; he'd try to make it quick –

No, she would not allow herself to think of it. Eamon would send help; he had to. He had a great deal to lose himself, after all.

Anora had never been a particularly religious woman; it was her firm belief that action was both quicker and more effective than prayer. But confined as she was, powerless to do anything but wait and hope, she suddenly began to understand what caused people to turn to the Maker in times of desperation. She had done all she could; the only thing left to her now was to pray.

So she set her candle back down on the table and slid to her knees, bowing her head. And murmured a soft plea to Andraste – who surely knew what it was to be imprisoned and helpless – that She in Her mercy would bring her out of this place alive.


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: This is the final chapter. Before everyone goes "but what about Aedan and the Landsmeet?", never fear: I plan to tackle those events in more detail in a separate story. As always, many thanks to those who've taken the time to review and comment._

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Chapter 7

There was a bitter irony, she thought, in the way it had all turned out. In a sense, events had come full circle. The madness that began eight months ago, with the death of her husband, had finally ended today with the death of her father.

She'd moved swiftly to establish her authority, appointing Cauthrien as head of her personal guard, and ordering the release of all political prisoners from Fort Drakon. Anora was no fool; she knew that the more quickly she moved to distance herself from her father's actions as Regent, the easier her subsequent reign would be. She hated herself for it, yet it had to be done.

Loghain's body lay in a cool cellar beneath the palace, guarded by a mute, blank-faced Ser Cauthrien. There'd be no state funeral, not when he'd died a traitor's death, but she could at least ensure that he went to the flames with a modicum of dignity. He'd have a pyre, and prayers, and mourners – even if she and Cauthrien were the only ones in Ferelden willing to honour the man who'd once saved it.

Now she sat alone in the rooms that had been his chambers, surrounded by his possessions – books, maps, clothing, all the paraphernalia of a life that had ended brutally and without warning. He was gone – like her mother, like Cailan – and this time there was no one left to offer comfort or solace.

She'd suspected that it was coming, as soon as the Warden brought her the Tevinter contracts. He'd said nothing, just thrown them down on the table in front of her and turned away, but she'd seen his expression in that brief moment when their eyes met. And when she saw her father's seal and signature on that shameful document, she'd heard his words echo in her head – _Something must be done, of course_ – and knew, deep in her heart, that his fate was sealed.

But it had been so close. If it weren't for Maric's little bastard – in every sense of the word, she thought bitterly – there might still have been a chance. Her mind recoiled from the memory of his death, that terrible moment when the blade struck his neck and blood sprayed from the wound and her heart cracked with anguish. She'd forced herself to watch; what kind of coward would she be if she had not? And yet it still seemed unreal to her: a hallucination, a twisted dream.

What hurt the most was that none of them had defended him. None of the men who'd fought by his side at West Hill and White River, who'd shared in his triumph over Meghren, who knew full well that they owed everything they had to the Hero of River Dane. Even the few who'd supported him in the vote had mostly been sycophants like Ceorlic, more concerned with their own self-interest than with the good of Ferelden. And yet she could not condemn them, for she, too, had betrayed him.

She cringed now to think how she'd denounced him, her words a carefully-woven tissue of lies, truths and half-truths that had rung all too convincingly in the Bannorn's ears. Her own intent hardly mattered; nothing could alter the fact that she'd gambled with her father's life, and lost.

_Maker help me, I didn't want this. I never wanted this._

The tears came freely now, spilling down her cheeks and soaking the leather map-case she held clutched against her chest. They brought no relief, but still she let them fall, knowing it could be some time before she could next allow herself the luxury of weeping. A Queen could not afford to show weakness; one outburst of grief over a dead father's corpse might be excused, but two would not.

She hadn't lost everything, of course. Her father's blood had bought her a throne, and a husband – Aedan, last of the Couslands, and now the Warden-Commander of Ferelden. Their marriage would give Ferelden the only things she lacked: strength of arms, and a noble bloodline. He'd make a good consort, she thought, as long as she could keep him under control.

Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled. Soon the people of Denerim would know that Loghain Mac Tir, the man who'd come to symbolise their freedom, was dead – slain by the Wardens as a traitor and regicide. She wondered if they too would remember him as a tyrant, if she would be the only one to recall the good he'd done along with the bad.

It was time. She stood, brushing traces of tears from her eyes, and laying her father's map-case on his desk. Later on, there would be time to properly mourn: for the man he'd once been, the hero who'd led his people to freedom. For the father who'd carried her in his arms and guided her first wobbling steps; who'd taught her to read maps, and to fight with the bow and sword; who'd tried so hard to protect her, at the cost of his honour and his sanity and ultimately his life.

But not yet. By the time she reached Eamon's estate, she would be perfectly composed once more, the grieving daughter submerged in the dutiful monarch. That was the price of power; it was, without doubt, what her father would have expected of her.

_My Maker, know my heart  
Take from me a life of sorrow  
Lift me from a world of pain  
Judge me worthy of Your endless pride._


End file.
